


poses

by fightlikeagirl



Category: Borderlands
Genre: Dubious Consent, Lingerie, M/M, Sex Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-19 05:06:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5954677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fightlikeagirl/pseuds/fightlikeagirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack finds Rhys more than a little entertaining. Rhys is just trying to make next month's rent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	poses

**Author's Note:**

> jack is fucking awful in this, fair warning
> 
> set in a sort of vague borderlands-y au but where helios is like, a really imposing office building instead of a fucking space station

Rhys hates himself more than anything in these moments, when his fingers are hovering over the buttons for Moxxi’s number (because he refuses to program her in as a contact), hesitating, hesitating, before he presses enter.

She picks up after two rings, which is a relief because after so long he’d expected her to send him to voicemail. 

“Back again, sugar?” she says, and look. It’s not like he doesn’t like Moxxi, or respect her, because he does, he absolutely does, it’s just that he’d had. Other plans. Other plans like Hyperion, like becoming the youngest executive the company had seen, like business cards so elegant it made you cry just to look at them. Not like the jobs Moxxi finds him every time he’s pennies away from his electricity getting shut off again.

“Don’t gloat,” he tells her, and she laughs.

“Sweetheart, one day you’re going to realize that those legs of yours are a _gift_ that you are _wasting_ , and then you’ll really hear me gloat.” On the other end of the line he can hear the long inhale of her taking a drag of her cigarette, followed by the exhale of smoke, which sounds dangerously like her stalling.

“You don’t have anything,” Rhys says, and his heart sinks. Shit. He’s really going to get evicted this time.

“I didn’t say that,” Moxxi says, but there’s another pause, and he imagines the coy little way she bites her lip when she’s milking that last extra tip out of a drunk patron. “You’re not going to like it.”

“Moxxi, as long as it pays in actual money, I will literally take anything right now.” He knows he’s giving away all his cards, but seriously, he’s desperate. She inhales again, and he pauses. “It does pay money, right? Because I’m pretty sure the limit to the number of times I can pay my rent in weird Pandoran drugs is _none_.”

“The pay is fifteen hundred, in ‘actual money’, baby, don’t worry about that,” she says. “Look, swing by the bar tonight and I’ll tell you about it, okay? And make sure you’re free on Friday night.”

“Moxxi,” he says, but she’s already hung up, and the abrupt sign-off worries him more than a little.

But...

Fifteen hundred, fifteen hundred? That’s enough to cover his rent and utilities for next month, enough to make thoroughly sure he’ll make it through until he can find another temp job. It’s a damn blessing, is what it is, and really, how bad can the job be?

 

 

“You have got to be kidding,” Rhys says flatly, staring at the tiny bit of silk and ribbons Moxxi’s placed on the bar between them.

She rolls her eyes. “Come on, it’s not like it’s that much worse than anything you’ve done before.”

“Yeah, but—but—” Rhys says, searching desperately for a good excuse for why he absolutely cannot do this. “Those didn’t come with _corsets_ ,” he says, aware of how lame it is, and Moxxi rolls her eyes again.

“Do you want the gig or not? I seem to recall someone being absolutely desperate, but if you don’t want it—”

“Oh, for—yes, I want it,” he says, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Don’t rub it in.”

Moxxi gives him a look that’s unexpectedly soft, for her. “You know you’re good at this. You’ve got the body for it, and the face, and frankly, the mouth—” She glares when he squawks, face heating up. “I’ve told you, I have a dozen clients who would pay through the nose to have those pretty lips on their cock, don’t make faces at me. Let me finish.” She pauses to pour herself a drink, a generous measure of gin. “You could be making a hell of a lot more money with me than you earn at those temp jobs, I can tell you. There’s nothing shameful about it, sugar, you could be doing so well if you’d just get over that guilty little voice in your head.”

Rhys shakes his head. “I’m doing this job, Moxxi. Just this one.”

“Of course,” she says, but her eyes don’t believe it.

 

 

The part that Moxxi conveniently leaves out until the car drops him off Friday night at fucking Helios is that the client isn’t just a VIP, the client is goddamn Hyperion.

“Fuck no,” Rhys says to no one in particular, “fuck this, fuck everything.”

“You’re Rhys?”

A harassed-looking woman taps at an ECHOdevice, not looking up at him.

“Um,” Rhys says. “She told you my name?” Goddamn it. Goddamn it, Moxxi, they know his name, now.

The woman gives him an unimpressed look. “Like I give a shit who you are. Anyway, I just have your first name, gotta call you something other than ‘you in the underwear.’ Come on, follow me or you’re gonna be late.”

Rhys follows meekly, trying not to stare too much at the opulence present just in the damn elevator.

“Okay, the rules,” the woman says. “You don’t speak unless you’re directly spoken to. Try not to look anyone in the eye, either. Just stand there and look pretty, essentially, and serve the drinks when you’re summoned. Absolutely do not repeat anything you hear discussed in here to anyone. Touching is against the rules, don’t worry about that.”

“Okay,” Rhys says, shoving his hands into his pockets and looking at the floor. He can do this. It’s just four hours. He can do this.

“You can undress in here,” she tells him, leading him out of the elevator. He nods, hesitates when she doesn’t leave, and pulls his hoodie over his head as quickly as he can, shoving his jeans down his hips and stepping out of his sneakers. She gives him a critical look, doing a little circle around him before nodding. 

“Yeah, he’ll like you,” she says, and doesn’t explain before turning away to shuffle through a black case of lipstick. She holds a pale pink one up to Rhys’s lips, frowns and turns back to pull out a dusty rose shade. “Better,” she says, and he holds as still as he can while she applies it.

He’d tried to avoid the mirror at Moxxi’s as much as possible while getting dressed, tried not to think about any of it too much, but there’s a full length mirror against one wall here and once he’s caught a glimpse of himself he can’t help pausing, a little awe-struck. The creamy white silk offsets his skin delicately, the panties sitting low on his waist to flatter his hips. The little bows on the tops of the garters draw attention to the brief expanse of his thighs left uncovered by silk, and he can’t help turning around to check—yeah, his ass looks kind of great.

Down the hall, he can hear low conversation, and he’s intrigued in spite of himself. This is starting to look like it might be the closest he’ll ever get to the top brass of Hyperion, and yeah, it’s kind of exciting. Even if he’s doing it in lingerie.

The room is luxury and money at its height, all dark wood and red leather, a faint smokiness lingering in the air. Exactly the kind of place you’d expect the shadowy members of a secret society to sit around and do exotic drugs. Real wood, too, not just plastic imitation, and gold accents on everything.

There’s a brief pause in the conversation when he walks into the room, but it resumes quickly enough as he walks to the corner where the bartender is, the execs largely ignoring him.

Okay. So it’s that kind of party. Domination comes in all different forms, after all.

He takes the martini the bartender hands him, carries it to the exec he gestures to. He can feel a few eyes on him now, lingering on his ass, and he resists the urge to hunch his shoulders and fold up. It’s fine. He can do this.

He can do this, he tells himself again, until he’s handed a tumbler of whiskey with a murmured, “for Handsome Jack,” and he blanches. It feels like he’s moving in slow motion as he turns, finds a piercing gaze on him and _mother of fuck_ , why. Why didn’t Moxxi say, why didn’t the woman with the ECHOcomm say, _why_.

Handsome Jack keeps watching him as he walks, dream-like, across the room—his eyes are so _intense_ , how was it that the motivational posters never quite managed to convey this level of heaviness in his gaze—remembering only once he’s setting the drink in Jack’s hand to lower his eyes, dropping them to the floor in an instant.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” Handsome Jack drawls, and there’s a breath of laughter to his right. Rhys’s face heats up and he makes his way hastily back to the bar. When he looks back, Jack’s not looking at him anymore, focusing on something a pale man in a high collar is saying, and he lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

No fucking wonder this pays top dollar, when there’s a chance of literally getting let out an airlock if he fucks this up. He is going to _kill_ Moxxi when he gets back. If he gets back.

It’s a little closer to normal after that; he brings drinks, casually eavesdrops while trying to keep his face as blank as possible. They’re discussing an upcoming SMG release from Dahl, new developments in corrosive tech, fascinating enough that it’s a moment before he realizes that there are eyes on him again.

Handsome Jack raises an eyebrow, tapping at his empty glass, and heat spreads up Rhys’s cheeks. He takes the glass as quickly as he can, trying not to hyperventilate as the bartender refills it, eyes on his feet as he carries it back over.

Light fingers brush his wrist as he hands it over and he jerks, nearly spilling it, prompting Jack’s eyebrows to travel even further up his forehead. There’s a curious look on his face, and Rhys turns away as quickly as he can.

A hand catches him around the waist then, warm palm flattening over his hip, and he lets out a startled noise as Jack guides him down, one-handed, to sit in his lap. In his actual lap, he’s sitting in Handsome Jack’s lap.

Distantly, he wonders what happened to the no-touching rule, but. It’s Handsome Jack. Rules are there for other people to obey, and Handsome Jack to break.

“Carry on,” Jack says mildly, his hand still on Rhys’s hip, fingers toying with the lace hem on his panties, and the discussion on Dahl’s new corrosive weapons picks up again like Rhys isn’t literally perched on Handsome Jack’s knee. His heart is thumping, probably loud enough for Jack to hear it.

_Fifteen hundred dollars_ , he reminds himself as Jack’s arm settles heavy around his waist, shifting him to the side as he lifts the glass to his mouth with his other hand. Fifteen hundred, and he better be getting an incredible goddamn tip out of this. He is never speaking to Moxxi again.

The touches don’t go any further than idly stroking at his hip, fortunately, and he’s only in Handsome Jack’s lap for maybe twenty minutes before Jack is handing him his empty glass, and when he returns with a refill Jack doesn’t give him a second look. And then the evening is largely uneventful, as much as an evening serving drinks to some of the most dangerous men in the world while wearing lingerie can be.

It’s near midnight when the night begins to wrap up, cigars extinguished and drinks finished. Rhys collects the empty glasses and watches them leave. He’s bending down to pick up a wine glass when the third and final Incident of the night happens, a hand on the small of his back holding him in place while Handsome Jack’s other hand undoes the ribbon at the base of his corset, fingers reaching up to trace the small expanse of spine they’ve exposed.

He straightens up and turns around as quick as he can, breath coming fast, and this time he doesn’t drop his eyes, holds Jack’s gaze. His expression is entirely unreadable, and then he blinks, looking amused.

“Give Moxxi my love,” he says, handing Rhys a heavy, creamy envelope embossed with a gold H. And then he’s gone, leaving a lingering scent of expensive whiskey and a blush rising in Rhys’s cheeks.

He doesn’t check the envelope until he’s back in the elevator, dressed in his own clothes again, willing his heart to stop racing. At which point he almost has another heart attack when he finds the five hundred dollar tip. God, Moxxi’s gonna be so smug.

 

 

He puts Jack out of his head afterwards. He gets a job filing in Tediore’s accounting sector—it’s not Hyperion, and it pays shit, but it’s something on his resume. He goes to Moxxi’s a few times, but just for drinks. He’s not looking for work, and she doesn’t offer.

Until, of course, she fucking does.

“I don’t want it,” he says, chasing the straw in his drink with his tongue.

She clucks her tongue at him. “Just because you have a job now you’re getting all _picky_. Didn’t you just say they’d cut your hours last week?”

“I’m still doing fine. Just eating a little more instant noodles.”

She leans forward, the careful angle of her body letting her cleavage spill out dangerously far. “It’s Handsome Jack.”

“Okay, now I’m definitely not doing it.”

“I wouldn’t be offering, but...he asked for you. Specifically.”

Rhys lets the straw fall out of his mouth. “He fucking didn’t.” Handsome Jack. Handsome Jack asked for him.

“He wants an escort for a party. Two thousand.”

“You’re making this up,” Rhys says. “There is _no way_.” He frowns. “I’m not sucking his dick.”

“You don’t have to _suck_ his _dick_ ,” Moxxi says. “I can’t promise he won’t get handsy—”

Rhys snorts and she sighs. “His behavior’s a little unpredictable.”

“I need another drink,” Rhys says, dropping his chin on the bar, and Moxxi pushes another gin and tonic over at him.

“He asked for _you_ , sugar,” she says again, and he sighs. God, his life is out of control.

 

 

So he doesn’t have to wear lingerie this time, which is...good, he guesses. Moxxi has him come by to pick up an elegantly tailored two-piece suit instead, and he doesn’t want to know where she’s been getting his measurements. Also under the list of things he doesn’t want to know: whether Moxxi picked this out or if he’s going to be wearing something Handsome Jack personally selected for him.

The tie is yellow, though, Hyperion yellow, and he kind of thinks Moxxi has at least a little more taste than that.

He spends a luxuriously long time in the shower, just stands under the spray and tries not to think too hard about what he’s getting into. Uses the fancy hair products he keeps on the top shelf of his cupboard for special occasions, the ones that leave his hair looking soft and touchable—not that he wants Handsome Jack touching his hair, he tells himself, not that he’s imagining Jack running a possessive hand through it and _pulling_.

He’s pacing nervously by the time seven-thirty arrives, anxiety mounting as Jack is five, ten, fifteen minutes late. And then, seven-forty-seven, there’s a sleek black car pulling up outside his apartment complex, a uniformed driver escorting him down, holding the car door open for him.

Jack’s on his comm when Rhys slides in, doesn’t spare him a glance as Rhys fidgets, unsure where to look, what to do. The car smells like expensive leather and the spice of whatever scent Jack’s wearing and he tries not to inhale it too obviously. He can feel his heart thrumming as he stares quietly at Jack’s shoes.

“Look,” Jack says, cutting off whoever’s on the other line, “it’s just not that hard to grasp. Those specs are going to be on my desk Monday morning, or—I mean, do I have to finish this sentence? I know your whole department seems to need my hands up your ass working your strings for you, but you can figure out where I’m going with this, right? Right.”

He snaps the comm shut and throws it at his feet, kicking it under the seat with a snarl. “Drive,” he barks at the front seat, and Rhys tries not to gulp too audibly.

It takes a tremendous effort not to shrink back into the seat when Jack turns to him, a complete lack of expression on his mask that fucking _terrifies_ him. He keeps as still as he can as Jack’s eyes slide slowly down his body, cold and evaluating, and god, Moxxi is really going to send him to an early grave.

And then Jack smiles, sharp and wolfish. “Nice to see you again, kiddo,” he says, and Rhys blushes furiously, trying not to remember the last time he’d been this close to the man.

“Hi,” he says, sort of stupidly, and Jack’s smile widens.

“It’s Rhys, right?” he says, and Rhys nods. “So here’s what we’re doing tonight, Rhysie. Maliwan’s having a weapons showcase, which is nice because Maliwan goes all frickin’ out on the open bar, they’re classy like that. Basically I need you to hang off my arm, look pretty, nod at what I’m saying and just, like, look at me adoringly. That in your skillset, Rhys?” His tongue catches the last word, curling around Rhys’s name in a way that’s more than a little distracting.

“Um,” Rhys says, and he really needs to reconnect the part of his brain that delivers more than one-word answers. “Yeah, I can—I can do that.”

Jack is starting to look impossibly pleased with himself. “Good boy,” he says, giving Rhys a last glance-over before he opens the car door where they’ve stopped at the showcase.

His hand is an insistent pressure at the small of Rhys’s back, just barely high enough not to be inappropriate, thumb pressing into the ridge of his spine. He steers Rhys through the crowds, pausing occasionally to drift in and out of conversations with effortless grace.

“Whiskey, neat,” Jack tells the bartender when they reach him, and pulls back to peer critically at Rhys. “And a vodka martini,” he adds decisively. He hands Rhys the cocktail but doesn’t make a move to lift his own glass, just watches as Rhys takes a nervous sip, gaze settling on the lines of his throat.

Jack keeps watching just long enough to be uncomfortable before sliding his hand against Rhys’s back again, guiding him into a circle of Hyperion executives. No one questions him, no one asks his name, no one so much as looks at him. The hand stays at his back, Jack stroking his thumb over and over his spine, and he feels a blush rising in his face. God, it is fucking absurd that Jack’s affecting him like this, as surely as if he had Rhys in a collar, the leash looped around Jack’s fist. He focuses on his drink, trying not to think about it too much.

And okay, if he’s being honest, it’s not like this whole thing is exactly a hardship. He savors the velvet taste of expensive vodka, tunes out most of what the other Hyperion lackeys are saying, just watches Jack. He’d said something about adoring looks, right?

The conversation turns to guns—they are here for a weapons showcase, he’d almost forgotten—and Jack tucks Rhys closer against his side while they follow a Maliwan rep to an absolutely gleaming display of projectile weaponry.

“Sleek,” Jack says, tone a little grudging, finally lifting his hand from Rhys’s waist to trace over the orange stripe on a sniper rifle. He lifts it gently, like holding a baby, and Rhys feels his breath quicken as he watches Jack heft it over his shoulder, sighting down the barrel.

Watching him is...an experience, and Rhys bites his bottom lip, staring at the way his body falls into elegant lines, the angles of his arms, the coiled power in him, the way he strokes the trigger almost lovingly, his tongue caught between his teeth. This, he thinks, this is what people think of when they hear the name _Handsome_ Jack. Awe and terror twisted all up together.

Jack turns his head abruptly, eyes meeting Rhys’s, and his lip curls up when he catches Rhys staring.

“You need another drink,” he says, setting down the rifle and taking Rhys’s empty glass. And he really shouldn’t, shouldn’t be drinking anything that’s going to make his head _less_ clear around Handsome Jack, but he accepts the glass that’s pressed into his hands meekly. It gives him something to do with his hands, anyway, keeps him from fidgeting while he listens to Jack discuss the pros and cons of explosive elemental tech.

So he’s maybe just this side of tipsy when Jack walks him to the door, enough that he doesn’t quite realize what’s happening until they’ve turned into an alley and Jack’s got him pressed up against a wall, nose against the hollow of his throat, inhaling deep.

Rhys sucks in a sharp breath, shallow, his palms pressing desperately against the cold brick wall. “Jack,” he says, mouth dry, and Jack shoves a knee in between his thighs, grinding against him.

“Shhh, kitten,” Jack murmurs, lips dragging up Rhys’s neck until he’s breathing against Rhys’s mouth. “Don’t ruin this, mmkay?” He presses his knee in, hard, and Rhys lets out a little whine that cuts off when Jack kisses him, a bruising crush of mouths together, one hand tangled in his hair to hold him in place, sucking on his bottom lip and catching it between his teeth, biting. Rhys is panting when he finally pulls away.

Jack smiles, a slow, self-satisfied grin, while Rhys tries frantically to get his breathing back under control.

“I’m not,” Rhys says, tongue clumsy, “you’re—we’re not—”

Jack laughs at him, stepping away. “Maybe next time, kiddo.” There’s an envelope in his hands, then tucked into Rhys’s jacket and right, that’s what this whole thing was about. Right. And then he’s turning around, sauntering away and fucking _leaving_ Rhys here, half-hard, back pushed up against an alley wall.

Un-fucking-believable.

 

 

“ _Shhh, kitten_ ,” Jack whispers again, and Rhys squeezes his eyes shut tighter, his metal hand curled desperately in the sheets. He’s got his face pressed into the pillows, biting his lip helplessly, his other hand a tight fist around his cock as he ruts down into the tangled sheets. “ _Just look at you, such a mess_ ,” as Rhys bucks into his own fist. It’s not enough, god, not enough. “ _You’re a_ mess, _baby_.”

“Please,” Rhys gasps, flipping onto his back, tipping his head back and arching his back, stroking a thumb over the head of his cock, smearing pre-come down it. He shoves his right hand into his mouth, mindful not to bite down on the metal plating, sliding his tongue between his fingers.

“ _You think I’d be gentle? You think that’s how I’d touch you?_ ”

Rhys shakes his head, pushing his fingers further into his mouth. He cups his balls, squeezes, jerks his cock in rough, sloppy strokes. “No,” he whispers, revels in the hot shame welling in his chest as he thrusts upward into his hand. He comes with a choked-off moan.

Shit. _Shit_ , he is so fucked.

 

 

Tediore lets him go after a few more weeks, which isn’t a surprise, if he’s being honest. And besides, it’s not like Tediore was his end goal, or anything. Hyperion’s not hiring at the moment, though, so. Nothing to be done about that.

“I might have something,” Moxxi says hesitantly, and when he perks up, hastily adds, “might! I said might!”

“Moxx,” Rhys groans, “I’m dying here. My rent is due on Tuesday.”

“It’s harder to find jobs you won’t reject out of hand,” she tells him. “If you’d be just a little less skittish—there’s nothing wrong with getting on your knees for someone who’s paying you.”

He makes a rude noise at her and she sighs. “Give me a minute. I’m going to make a couple calls.”

She disappears into the back, and he sucks at the straw in his drink, chasing the last drops of gin. Moxxi makes awesome bathtub gin that she keeps in an unlabeled bottle on a back shelf for herself and her regulars. She’d given him a bottle once for his birthday and he’d taken it home, opened it, and woken up the next morning to find half of it gone, feeling like something a skag shat out and with almost no memory of the night before.

Moxxi comes back out looking harassed. She doesn’t say anything as she slams a glass on the counter and reaches for the whiskey she keeps on a top shelf, for when she’s in a mood. It’s only once she’s drained that glass and poured another that she turns to him.

“So,” she says. “Sugar.”

“Uh,” Rhys says. “Do...do you have something?”

“Handsome Jack,” she says, and Rhys’s stomach drops. “Handsome Jack wants another date to a party at Hyperion.”

“This...is remarkably suspicious,” he says, and then he realizes. “Oh my God, you’ve been waiting for this. You’ve been keeping him on hold for when I came back.”

“Hey,” Moxxi says sharply. “I’m doing _you_ a favor here. Do you know what dealing with that man is like? He asked me to call him the next time you had an opening, and I _said_ I would let him know. You’re the one who came to me, sugar.”

Rhys buries his head in his arms and groans. “Can you just,” he says weakly, “can you just—just pour me another glass. Or two. Or just—just a pint of gin, I think, is enough to deal with this.”

She snorts. “Trust me, sweetheart, there is not enough alcohol in the world to deal with that asshole.” But she pours him one anyway and it tastes like sweet relief.

 

 

Rhys really hopes this isn’t becoming a routine as he rubs his Fancy Occasion conditioner into his hair. The idea of developing a Jack Routine is concerning, to say the least. The nerves in his stomach are uncomfortably familiar, though. 

There’s clothes in a bag on his dresser again, because Moxxi still doesn’t trust him enough to dress himself for a party like this. (” _Clip-on tie_ ,” she’d said when he protested, with a look on her face like they were discussing decaying roadkill.)

And actually they’re totally classy, don’t make him look like a cheap escort at all. There’s a navy vest with a super sharp pocket square in a honeycomb print, a dress shirt in white with specific instructions from Moxx (tuck in, first two buttons open), and slim-cut trousers that make his legs look fucking amazing.

Jack is late again, half an hour this time, but he freaks out less than before, uses the extra time to make sure his hair is perfect (it totally is). He’s not dressed up, just in the layers of clothing that Rhys tends to think of as the Official Handsome Jack Uniform.

This time, he watches Rhys as he slides in awkwardly again, torso then legs. His expression is...Rhys can’t think of any way to describe it besides _hungry_.

“Hey, Rhysie,” he says, and Rhys blushes bright red fucking immediately. “Thought I’d be seeing you again a little sooner. I left Moxxi pretty specific instructions to call me.”

“Oh,” Rhys says. “I’ve, um. I’ve been working.” Jack raises an eyebrow at that, and he stammers, “Not, not, uh—just filing. Stuff. For Tediore. Just got let go, so.” God, he sounds so fucking stupid.

“Tediore!” Jack says. “Oh, kid, you can do better than that. Remind me later and I’ll set you up with something at Hyperion—there’s gotta be someone who needs a pretty new secretary or some bullshit, I get way too many ECHOmails like ‘oh Jack, you airlocked my last secretary, can I have a new one pretty please with sprinkles on top,’ as if that’s my friggin’ problem.”

“Uhhh,” Rhys says, feeling more than a little stunned.

“Say ‘thank you, Handsome Jack,’” Jack tells him, grinning. “Also you could blow me to show your gratitude, but I won’t insist on that,” and now even the tips of Rhys’s ears are on fire. “God, it is way too easy to make you blush, cupcake.”

“Thank you, Handsome Jack,” Rhys repeats, trying not to look him in the eye.

“ _Good_ boy,” Jack says, and the praise makes something hot curl in Rhys’s stomach that he tries his best to ignore.

Attending a party with Handsome Jack is a little different at Helios than at the building Maliwan had rented out. This is his home turf, and it’s not like Jack doesn’t walk everywhere like he owns the place but this—this is his kingdom.

And he makes a good king.

As before, Jack keeps Rhys close, the ever-present hand occasionally moving to his hip to pull him in even tighter. Jack is warm, even through the layers, and Rhys savors the heat of his body, breathes in his familiar scent, smoky like campfires. It’s a wild, heady, animal scent, and it’s so very Jack.

They’re surrounded by an endless parade of flatterers and bootlickers from the moment they enter. For the most part, Jack seems uninterested in them, only talking to a few with any amount of engagement. He reigns from a small circle of Hyperion higher-ups, everyone else watching hawk-like for any chance to infiltrate the chosen few, while Jack leans back against the bar and surveys his domain. Every so often Jack will voice an opinion, with which everyone agrees quickly (or risk banishment, Rhys assumes).

Someone says something, and Jack rolls his eyes a little, points to them, and says, “Yeah, okay, piss-for-brains, get out of my face before you make me wanna put a bullet in my skull.” And the circle closes a little, and the offending employee is just gone. 

It makes Rhys shiver a little, but then Jack slings an arm over his shoulder, resting it there and letting his hand stray up into Rhys’s hair. His fingers tangle in the shorter little curls at the back, stroke his neck, and Rhys exhales slowly, trying not to outright purr under the attention.

It’s late in the evening by the time the party starts to wind down, and when Jack slides his hand back down to his waist and guides him to the elevator, Rhys thinks—okay. Another evening with Handsome Jack survived. Honestly, he thinks he might not mind if this became a regular thing.

And then he watches Jack press not the button for the ground floor, but the gold button at the top with the stylized _H_ on it—the one for the penthouse.

“Um,” Rhys says.

Jack turns to glance at him, looking entirely disinterested in what he has to say. “Did I say I was done with you?”

“Jack,” Rhys says, suddenly afraid, what—what did Moxxi tell him—

Jack turns abruptly, walking into Rhys’s space, forcing him to take a step back, and another, until he’s pressed up against the elevator wall. Jack’s arms bracket him in, and he positively _looms_ , bent over Rhys, face just inches away.

“So you have what we call a choice, here, pumpkin,” he says, and his breath is hot against Rhys’s face. “You can leave, if you’d like. I won’t call you again. Or,” he says, and grins, looking terrifyingly animal. “You can take this opportunity to double what you’re making here tonight. Off the books. I won’t tell Moxxi if you don’t.”

Rhys’s breath is coming unsteadily, and he gasps a little as Jack leans in, traces his tongue around the shell of his ear, which is just not playing fair.

“What’s it going to be, kitten?” he murmurs, lips against his neck. He grinds against Rhys’s hip, slow and dirty, and Rhys groans. “I need an answer.”

He’s going to regret this, god, he’s going to regret this forever— “Yes,” he says, quietly, but Jack hears all the same.

“Good answer!” Jack says, sounding delighted, and straightens up so fast Rhys almost gets whiplash. The elevator stops with a ding and Jack doesn’t bother look back and see if Rhys follows him into the penthouse. Rhys trails him, feeling thoroughly out of place as he eyes the expensive fixtures, the elegant furniture.

“You know,” Jack says, and Rhys is taken entirely by surprise when Jack turns, puts a hand on Rhys’s shoulder and shoves until Rhys goes down, sprawling on his back. He doesn’t have a chance to get up before Jack is on top of him, bent over with his hands flat on either side of Rhys’s face, sitting on his chest. And Rhys could probably push him off, but there’s a gleam in Jack’s eyes that makes him reconsider. “You agree to things _waaaay_ too easy, Rhysie, baby,” he continues, his grin wide and feral. “I mean, I didn’t even tell you what I wanted to do to you! I could’ve brought you back here to _skin you_ and _wear your face_ , for all you know!”

Shit, shit, oh _fuck_ , what was he fucking thinking, like anyone would care if Handsome Jack murdered some nameless escort, like he’s never heard the fucking stories—

The sound of a zipper coming down, and Jack’s taking his cock out, half-hard already. “God, you are so cute when you’re scared witless, it’s a really good look for you,” he says, his breathing harsh. He spits in his hand and the sounds he makes as he strokes himself are wet and obscene. “Should take a picture,” he adds, “you should see yourself right now. _God_ ,” and groans.

He keeps his gaze locked on Rhys the entire time he’s jacking off and Rhys doesn’t dare look away. He can’t breathe right with Jack on his chest like this, and, god, fuck everything, he should absolutely not be aroused right now, but. But Jack’s eyes on him, like he’s the only thing in the world right now.

“Ah, fuck,” Jack groans, and comes all over Rhys’s face.

He stands up almost immediately, tucking himself back into his jeans and zipping them up. Leaving Rhys lying there, feeling more than a little degraded. “Not gonna lie, princess, been wanting to do that since we first met,” he says, looking down at Rhys. “Seriously, your face just kinda screams ‘ _jizz on me_ ’. You want a drink?”

Rhys doesn’t answer, sitting up slowly. Shit, is his back ever sore. He washes his face in the kitchen sink, still thinking, smoothes out the wrinkled lines of his shirt. One of the buttons on his vest is loose and hanging off, and he gives up and undoes the other two to let it hang open. Jack holds out a glass to him when he turns back around, and he lifts it to his lips before he pauses, considering the implications of accepting a drink Handsome Jack made while he wasn’t looking.

“What’s in this?” he asks, and Jack snorts.

“Chill out, pumpkin, it’s just whiskey, I’m not gonna drug you. I’m paying you a shitload of money, that seems like enough. Seriously, it’s _whiskey_ ,” he adds when Rhys still hesitates.

Rhys drinks, when Jack seems like he’s going to just keep looking at him until he does. And it’s good, leagues apart from the stuff Moxxi puts in her whiskey sours, rich, full-bodied. Expensive, he figures.

“Better than what you’re used to, right?” Jack says as he watches Rhys swallow, like he’s a damn mind-reader. Or maybe it’s just that obvious.

“Yeah,” Rhys says, and Jack looks satisfied, finally lifting his own to his lips.

“C’mere,” Jack says after a moment, gesturing. Rhys walks around the kitchen bar towards him, a little trepidatious, but Jack just pulls him in and kisses him, licking his mouth open tenderly. Rhys—Rhys tries not to press up against him, but his hard-on’s still not totally gone, and Jack is so _warm_. “Mmmm,” Jack hums, the hand around Rhys’s waist tightening while his hand strays up and under his shirt. “Alright, bedroom, or I’m gonna end up bending you over the kitchen table and fucking you right here.”

Rhys’s breath hitches at the last bit, and Jack smirks.

Jack’s bedroom is what he’d expected, and it isn’t. The bed is...predictably expansive, like it’s probably seen a lot of use. What’s more unexpected is the clutter, mostly plans, for robots, for guns, cybernetic enhancements. They’re tacked up all over the walls, sitting in piles, some looking recent but others maybe years old. There’s some older ones in a childish hand that Rhys doesn’t ask about.

“Come on, clothes off,” Jack says, breaking him out of his reverie with a snap of his fingers. Right, right.

He shrugs out of his vest and hesitates. “Where should I...”

Jack snorts. “Just drop ‘em, cupcake, do I look like I care? I want you naked, like, five minutes ago.”

There’s a worrying undertone of annoyance in his voice and Rhys drops the vest like he’s been shocked, fingers flying down the buttons of his shirt. Some of them probably end up loosened beyond repair, but there’s already flecks of come on his collar so it’s not like this shirt was going to get anything but a swift burning when he got home.

He feels horribly bare once he’s down to just his briefs, as if he could feel even more vulnerable, but Jack’s still looking impatient and so he strips them off as quickly as he can manage.

Jack’s eyes run up and down his body, tongue dragging slowly over and around his lips, an obscene, appreciative gesture. The urge to wrap his arms around himself is strong, and Rhys has to squash it down, force himself to stand still for Jack’s—Jack’s _inspection_. 

“Yeah,” Jack murmurs, “yeah, that’s it,” and Rhys honestly can’t tell if that’s good or bad. And then Jack smiles, spreads his arms wide. “Alright, pumpkin,” he says, “I’m going to give you an incredible privilege here. I’m going to let _you_ undress _me_.”

Okay. So much for getting through this by lying back and just letting Jack do what he wanted. And—listen, it’s not like he’s never wanted to see Jack naked, to touch him, it’s just. Getting to actually know the man is shattering a lot of his illusions. (And the—the violence in him, the evident instability, the overwhelming _power_ —it’s absolutely not turning him on further. It’s not.)

Rhys approaches Jack cautiously, unclips the pocket watch and lays it on a table. His fingers are shaking just a little when he takes Jack’s gray jacket by the lapels and draws it carefully down his arms. He can feel Jack’s breath against his skin, can feel it against his neck when Jack smiles, pleased. The leather vest is next, and then the dress shirt, and finally the old, patched yellow sweater. And then he has to take a minute to take it in, the way Jack is broad and muscled under all the layers, which he guesses makes sense for a man who regularly strangles his employees with his own hands. He’s hairy, too, trailing down to dip under the waistband of his jeans in a way that’s just a little too perfect not to be carefully manicured.

“Alright, enough staring,” Jack says, but mildly, and Rhys drops to his knees. 

He takes in a long breath before he reaches for the buckle on Jack’s thigh holster to unclip it from his belt. One of Jack’s hands comes up to cup the back of his head, petting through his hair and humming with satisfaction as Rhys reaches between his legs, up and back, to undo the other strap. Jack holds him there for a moment after he’s got the holster off, face pressed up against the warmth of his thigh, before he’s released to set the holster on the dresser while Jack kicks his shoes off.

Rhys is quicker to undo Jack’s belt and unzip his jeans, and though he tries not to obviously rush through it, he gets the feeling Jack knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Careful with the goods there,” Jack says, and Rhys takes a breath before willing himself to slow. Jack’s cock curves up toward his stomach as Rhys draws his jeans down, and he is so, so not surprised that Jack goes commando.

Jack doesn’t move once Rhys’s got him fully undressed, just raises an eyebrow at him and Rhys scrambles mentally trying to figure out what he wants. It’s with extreme apprehension that he steps closer to Jack and lifts his hand to Jack’s face, raising a thumb to stroke his sharp cheekbone through the mask.

Jack moves so fast Rhys doesn’t even register it until his wrist is caught in a bone-crushingly strong grip, making him gasp in pain. There’s a snarl twisting his face as he grips Rhys’s hair with his other hand, pulling him in for a kiss that’s hard and brutal.

He doesn’t let up as he walks Rhys backward towards the bed, plundering his mouth, until the backs of Rhys’s knees hit the bed and he tumbles backward. There’s fear thrumming through his veins as he looks up at Jack, the way his hair’s starting to fall out of its perfect waves, sticking to his forehead. Jack only stares down at him for a moment before climbing on top of him, hands under his ass to scoot him further up the bed.

“Spread your legs,” he says, and Rhys is quick to obey. He’s pretty sure if he doesn’t—maybe even if he does—that Jack won’t hesitate to make this hurt.

(He tells himself that he doesn’t _want_ Jack to make him hurt.)

There’s the snap of a bottle of lube opening, and then a slick finger’s nudging at his entrance before before working in, barely giving him time to take a breath before it’s in to the second knuckle. Jack’s fingers are big and blunt and a second works its way in him, the stretch enough that it leaves him gasping for breath.

Jack’s got a curious look on his face as he scissors his fingers inside Rhys, like he’s cataloging all of Rhys’s reactions and filing them away for later. Mapping out the flush rising in Rhys’s face, almost scientific.

God, he is in so much trouble.

Three fingers, and Rhys whines deep in his throat while his hands scrabble in the sheets. “That’s it,” Jack says, laughing, “keep making those noises. I’m going to make you _scream_ before we’re done, buttercup.”

Yeah, capital-T Trouble.

Jack’s cock is even bigger pushing inside him, spreading him wider, than it had looked inches from his face while Jack knelt on top of him. He’s—

“ _Fuck_ ,” Rhys groans, as Jack bottoms out with a long, loud sigh. “ _Jack_ , oh fuck.”

“Yeah, say my name,” Jack says, pulling almost all the way out before shoving back in, his voice gone low and rough. “Come on, cupcake, say it.”

“Jack,” Rhys says, breathing hard as Jack sets up a hard, punishing pace. “Jack,” he says again, but Jack growls, “You can do better than that.”

“ _Handsome Jack_ ,” Rhys gasps when Jack’s fingers dig into his hips hard enough to bruise. Jack moans, and its laced with satisfaction. “Handsome Jack, please, god.” Fuck, it’s—it’s so much, Jack going as deep as he can on each thrust. His hands wander up and down Rhys’s body, squeezing, bruising.

“You’ve thought about this, haven’t you,” Jack says, snarls, almost, “imagined what it’d be like to have me inside you, to have my hands all over your pretty, pale skin. Don’t lie, Rhys.”

At this point, Rhys is pretty sure Jack’d be able to smell it on him if he even though about lying, and he chokes out a small, ashamed, “Yes.”

“How did you think I’d do it,” Jack croons. “Did you think I’d be _nice_?”

Rhys shakes his head, then curls his toes and mewls as Jack reaches for his cock, stroking it teasingly, almost casually.

“Tell me, then,” Jack says and punctuates it with a deep thrust that hits his prostate and leaves him arching his back and crying out.

“You’d hurt me,” Rhys whispers, and his face is so red with shame now, his cock so hard it hurts, but Jack makes a pleased sound like he’s a pet doing a trick right.

He rewards Rhys by curling his hand tighter around Rhys’s cock, stroking harder. “Sweetheart, you don’t know half the things I wanna do to you,” he says, and he thumbs over the head and Rhys screams with it when he comes.

Rhys comes back to himself slowly, Jack still fucking roughly into him, a look of concentration wrinkling his forehead above the mask. “Come on,” he mutters, “come on, sweetheart—” and he’s coming, spilling inside Rhys, pulling out enough to paint his thighs with it. Distantly, Rhys wonders if Jack would’ve worn a condom if he’d asked. Probably not.

Jack collapses heavily on top of him with a groan, pressing his face into Rhys’s neck hard enough that Rhys can feel the clasps from his mask digging into his skin. “Stop that,” he mumbles when Rhys tries to shift out from under him.

When Jack finally gets up with a grumble, disappearing into another room, Rhys doesn’t move, just curls onto his side a little while he assesses his bruises. He’s...going to be walking a little uncomfortably after this, and Jack’s definitely left some finger-shaped marks that won’t fade for a while. His scalp aches a little where Jack had twisted his fingers in his hair. He guesses it could be worse.

“Don’t fall asleep, you’re not staying,” Jack says severely, and Rhys opens his eyes to find Jack kneeling over him. His hair is back in place, the carefully messy waves perfect again, and there’s a washcloth in one hand. “And don’t wriggle,” he adds when Rhys shivers as he wipes clean the sensitive skin of his stomach. Jack hums consideringly and traces the puckered skin of his sore hole, and Rhys yelps and tries to pull away. “I _said_ , hold still.”

Rhys does his best to obey, but he can’t help squirming when Jack runs the washcloth over his inner thighs and cock, lingering a lot longer than he would have liked.

Jack pinches the tender skin of his thigh and laughs when Rhys squawks. “Yeah,” he says, “yeah, I’m definitely keeping you.”

Rhys doesn’t know what that means but he’s pretty sure he doesn’t like it. “Can I get dressed now?” he asks, trying not to sound too petulant while Jack’s still looming over him.

“No,” Jack tells him, which is kind of annoying, but he gets off and lets Rhys curl back up on his side. He shuts his eyes when Jack reaches a hand out, but all he does is stroke through Rhys’s sweat-damp hair. “Let’s talk about your job prospects, kitten.”

Rhys opens his eyes. “My job prospects?”

“See,” Jack says, “I don’t really like the idea of sending you off to some balding middle-manager. Who knows what kind of office slut you are—” holy shit sometimes Rhys cannot believe the things that come out of Handsome Jack’s mouth— “I bet you’d spread your legs for just about anybody for a promotion. Just let anyone use your pretty little mouth, wouldn’t you?”

Jack smiles down at him, and Rhys is pink with indignation.

“So I gotta keep my eye on you, don’t I?” Jack continues. “Make sure you don’t get taken advantage of. I’m thinking, assistant secretary to the President, that should be close enough. Keep you close enough to come running when I call. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

“Um,” Rhys says. What. What is happening.

Jack pats his cheek. “I’ll have my actual secretary ECHO you the details. Your money’s in an envelope in the kitchen.”

Which is a clear enough dismissal. He tries not to wince too obviously as he gets up and pulls his clothes back on, doing his best to ignore the way Jack’s watching him. God, he is going to take the longest, hottest bath when he gets home.

Rhys catches a glimpse of himself in the mirrored walls of the elevator on the way down and swallows a sharp inhale. He looks...he looks like he just let a handsome psychopath have his way with him, bruises on his collarbone, hair falling down and sticking out, missing buttons.

Oh yeah. He’s in over his head.

But like. He’s heard some incredible things about Hyperion’s dental plan.

**Author's Note:**

> much like rhys, i too once drank half a bottle of gin in a night because i make mistakes when it comes to gin
> 
> also i elected not to think too much about what rhys's rates would realistically be like because pandora is an economy based pretty much entirely on guns who gives a fuck


End file.
